


The Dying Of The Light

by cityonfire



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath, Alqualondë, Not Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-25 01:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cityonfire/pseuds/cityonfire
Summary: Feanor might have won the ships, but he left a trail of broken bodies behind him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few chapters planned, and will try to update at least once a week.

The waves lapped crimson at the bloody sand, the faint cry of seagulls drowned out by weeping and wailing. The last of the swan ships faded into the distant horizon, their white sails streaked with red to match the stained shore. Elemmirë walked along the beach, where the water met the sand, and let the waves wash over her bare feet.

Her sword hung heavy in her hand, so she let it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. Brushing angrily at her eyes with her hand, she paced up and down the shoreline, glancing from corpse to corpse. The quays and piers were lit but dimly, though there were many lamps. The faces of the dead all looked the same swathed in shadow, and she fell to her knees.

“Aironiel,” she screamed then, but heard nothing but the waves and distant cries. A young girl ran past her, clutching a small fabric bird to her chest and calling out for her father in a voice choked with tears. How would they even bury these many dead bodies? _Dead_. It was not even something she had known except as a vague concept. Animals die, insects die, plants die. Not elves. Feanaro’s mother had passed on to dwell in Manwë’s halls, but she was a curiosity, something to be discussed in low whispers over glasses of wine. 

But then her husband followed, slain by he whom Feanaro renamed Morgoth, and the Trees had died too. That was itself a terror, and Elemmirë had huddled in fear in Aironiel’s arms while Aironiel stroked her hair and promised everything would turn out right in the end. The Valar would protect them. Then Feanaro, all fey and fell, and his great host, came to the Teleri and demanded their ships. Aironiel had been at the front of the crowd, standing almost directly behind Olwë. She had told Elemmirë what he had said. They both thought him reasonable, and yet Feanaro’s voice had brooked no argument. 

“ _Aironiel,_ ” Elemmirë sobbed, panic weakening her knees so she could barely stand. The first of the circling birds had landed on a corpse, and dug its beak in deep. _No_ , they would not despoil the dead body so. She aimed a kick at its head and the bird rose into the air in a flurry of feathers. 

Feanaro had left, and they had thought the matter over. Then he returned, and he was not alone. The Teleri were not skilled at the sword. They had no need to be, and few among them were trained fighters. Elemmirë, herself one of the Noldor, could wield a blade competently. She had tried to teach Aironiel, but she would only shake her head and say, “I have a bow and a fishing spear, and that is all I need.” If she had taken up the sword, perhaps she would now stand at Elemmirë’s shoulder, running her hands through Elemmirë’s dark braids, soothing her. 

It was like spearing fish in a barrel. They could not fight. Elemmirë remembered the day but in sharp, jagged flashes. Maitimo, face set grimly, taking no pleasure from the task at hand, but not staying his hand. Turcafinwë, a mad smile painted on his face, blood deliberately striped under his eyes. Countless others, people Elemmirë had grown up with, turning on their Telerin friends. And at the front of it, Feanaro, seemingly everywhere at once, hacking down elves like so many weeds. 

She could see Aironiel’s face in the faces of every corpse. _Eru,_ she prayed _, at least let me recover her body_. But she could not shake the feeling that settled deep into her bones that Eru could see everything that happened--and that he did not care. Was this part of the Song, then? Was this day woven into the harmonies and melodies sung at the birth of Arda? It was so dark without the Trees, and Elemmirë was chilled to the marrow. 

What was the _point_ of Eru, what was the reason for the Valar’s existence when they let this happen, they let Feanaro stride in like he was entitled to the world and his murderous sons at his back. They let the Teleri be slaughtered like butchered meat, and sat back and did nothing. She had killed her own kin, standing with the Teleri for the sake of her wife, and for the sake of the people she had known since birth. Up until the moment the fighting began, she had truly thought there would be peace.

A hand on her arm startled her out of her reverie. “Come,” said an elf she did not know. “We cannot bury the dead without aid.” She looked bleakly at the elf and saw her grief and despair reflected back at her.

“I saw you fighting,” he said. “It cannot have been easy to take up arms against your kin, and I do not wish to ask anything further of you, but we need to bury our dead.” Elemmirë nodded mutely, and began to sob.

“Hush, hush,” said the elf, and pulled her into an embrace when her knees suddenly gave out. He smelled of sweat and blood, but she leaned into the contact, desperate for any shred of comfort. The elf pulled back, held her at arms length, and when she could once more stand unaided gave her a brusque nod. “What’s your name,” he asked. 

“Elemmirë,” she said, and when the elf began to walk she followed. 

“Mine’s Tatya,” he said. “Would that I had met you on a more auspicious occasion.” He sighed. “Have you the stomach for this? It is one thing to kill in the heat of battle, and another entirely to clean up the aftermath.” 

Elemmirë shrugged, or maybe it was simply that her shoulders could not bear up under the weight of her sorrow. “I will do what I must,” she said. “My wife might--my wife might be one of the dead, and I would not leave her to lie on this beach overnight with no one but the ravens for company.” Saying the words solidified it somehow, gave the thought life and made it real in a way that it had not been before. Her eyes silvered with tears, but she did not care. She glanced at Tatya, who she noticed was visibly struggling not to cry himself.

A woman walked up to them with a few makeshift litters in her arms. She handed one out to Tatya and Elemmirë, then walked off. Around them, elves were lifting the dead onto hastily made litters or simply carrying them on their backs

The water faded to pink in the dim lamplight, and then, as wave after wave passed, cleared entirely. Elemmirë could see a fire on a distant pier, where a torch had been knocked over. It would not spread, surrounded as it was by sand and sea, but it did illuminate the water. There was a corpse floating under the dock, waxy skin reflecting the fire, and Elemmirë had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden wave of nausea. 

There was a crab tangled in the corpse’s long golden hair, and Elemmirë gingerly waded into the water and tugged it free. The corpse lay heavy and sodden in her arms, and she scrambled up onto the sand as quickly as she could, eager to divest herself of her burden. Tatya strode over quickly and held the litter out. She rolled the corpse onto the litter, grateful that she at least would not have to sling the body over her shoulder. 

The bodies were lined up where the sand ended and the trees began. There was a large pit in the ground, with several elves digging inside it. Elemmirë stepped closer, and blinked as a shovelful of soil hit her face. She stepped back. 

“Do they not get their own burial,” she asked Tatya, a note of disbelief in her voice. He shook his head, shoulders bent with pain. 

“We have no time. There are not enough of us to give everyone an individual grave, not if we want them to be buried before the rot sets in. They will have their own cairn at their families’ homes with the hope that they shall return to us one day, but that is the most we can do for them.” Tatya turned back to the beach, litter held in one arm, and Elemmirë ran after them.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. Blood seeped from under Tatya’s arm. He made a noncommittal sound.

“I bandaged it, but I must have reopened the wound just now. It’s nothing, it barely stings.” He looked at her. “Besides,” he said, “so are you.”

She had not noticed it until then, but at Tatya’s words she patted her body until her fingers came away red. A long thin cut on her back, the pain washed away by the adrenaline and fear rushing through her blood. “It’s nothing,” she said, and the two of them walked over to the nearest corpse.

They laid the litter on the ground, Tatya reaching under the corpse’s arms and Elemmirë under its legs. She recognized the face. Ringwë had taught her how to swim, and now she lay on the sand, a small knife jutting out of her skull. Elemmirë leaned over and vomited, the bile bitter at the back of her throat. All of this was too much, too much, and it felt like her heart must break under the weight of her anguish.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elemmirë and Tatya deal with the emotional fallout of Alqualonde

Elemmirë plucked a fat tomato from its stem, the weight heavy and solid in her palm. She dropped it into a basket, and reached for the next one. The sun shone hot on the back of her neck, sweat beading on her brow. “Ha!” came a voice from right behind her, startling her into dropping her basket.

“Made you jump,” said Tatya, neatly dodging the swipe she aimed at him. 

“You bastard,” she said without any real rancor, and rolled her eyes when he laughed. Then his face smoothed and lost its mirth. He coughed slightly, glancing at the ground to avoid looking her in the eye.

“I went out today, to visit a friend, and received news from them. It is not a light account that I bring; it is probably best that you prepare yourself to hear it.” 

Elemmirë nodded at him, and he continued. “The first of the slain dead has returned from Mandos. As Miriel returned to the living, so too do they.”

“Oh,” said Elemmirë, voice soft. “Is it anyone I know?” Hope was barely concealed in her voice, and she knew that it was visible on her face. 

“A few. None from my family, or yours.” He looked away from her grief, the barely healed wounds surfacing once again. “I am sorry,” he said. “I should have waited for a better time to tell you.” 

She breathed in shakily. “No, I’m glad you told me. Delaying the news would scarcely spare me my sorrow. Besides, I live in the belief that Aironiel will return to me; others have returned, have they not?” She ignored the nagging worry behind her eyes, whispering that some wounds were too grievous to be healed before the end of all things came to pass. Her basket was full, and so she and Tatya went back inside.

It had been but a few years since that bloody day on the beach, and she had no one left save Tatya. His entire family had been slain, his older brother, his younger sister, his parents. All gone, hacked down before the self righteous might of the Feanorions and their people. Her family had stood with Feanaro, stood against her, and now were long gone. And so when she returned to the home she used to share with Aironiel, he followed, and stayed. She was glad of his presence, more even than she let on. When she woke screaming in the night, he was by her side, wiping her brow and soothing her back to sleep. And on the days when he sat and stared at nothing, neither eating nor drinking nor feeling anything at all, she sat by him and coaxed a smile from his still face. 

It wasn’t what she’d had before, and always there was a gaping sense of loss. Life went on as life did, but it was not the same, and it never would be. The sun rose and set, summer would come and go, but it was emptier than it had once been. Tatya too mourned, though he hid it better. The girl that he had just wed was numbered among the dead, though he had thought her safe and far from the battle. Elemmirë remembered his wail of anguish, the thin veneer of sanity he projected until then snapping. She’d dragged him away from the bodies then, half afraid he would kill himself. He had not, and neither had she, though some days she rose surprised to discover that they were, in fact, both still alive. 

Dinner that day was simple, for neither she nor Tatya had the energy to prepare anything intricate. Day old bread, tomatoes, and dried fish, for which she was thankful even if it was a dull meal. Tatya was unusually silent, and Elemmirë worried that he was slipping into one of his moods again. “Tatya?”

He sat still as a block of wood. Then his face brightened almost painfully, and he smiled, showing all his teeth. “I’m fine,” he said, “I’m perfectly fine. Excuse me, I think I’d like to rest awhile.” He pushed his chair back, scraping the wooden legs against the floor. It left a scratch on the flooring, but Elemmirë said nothing. His expression was off somehow, and she did not like it.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the moon had risen high before Elemmirë slipped on her nightdress and cautiously entered the bedroom. Silver light filtered weakly through the waxed paper windows, painting the room in shades of dull grey. Tatya lay on his bed, curled into a ball below his covers. His shoulders shook slightly.

“Hey,” whispered Elemmirë. She could leave him alone, and indeed that was most likely his wish, but it pained her to see him in such misery. “Do you wish to speak,” she asked him gently, and he turned his head from side to side. No. Elemmirë climbed onto his bed and sat silently beside him, offering her presence if nothing else.

He had been eating less, of late. Speaking less, too. She worried about him, how could she not, but he always adamantly insisted that all was well. The bed shuddered as Tatya hauled himself up. He moved slowly, as though his very bones ached. Leaning on his elbows, he brushed his long matted hair out of his eyes.

“I miss my wife,” he said.

“I do too,” was all Elemmirë replied. 

“Sometimes I think that today is the day she will return to me, but more and more I worry that she cannot, that the injuries she sustained went right to her fëa and that she will never return. I fear that she will remain in the halls of Mandos forever.”

Elemmirë cautiously reached out, unsure if he would shy away from her touch. He sat completely still, so wrapped her arms around him and let him weep into the crook of her neck, chin resting on her shoulder.

“I think that too, sometimes,” she said. “But I have to hold on to the belief that my beloved will return to me. Time heals, Tatya. It will heal us, and it will heal your wife and mine. Others have returned, so why not them?” Her words rang hollow, lacking any real conviction. She would say anything to comfort him, and he knew it. Tatya withdrew, wrapping his arms around himself as if for warmth, though the air was hot and heavy.

“Sometimes,” said Tatya, “sometimes I wish I were with her there. At least then we would be together.” He spoke softly, as if afraid of the weight of his words. Silence fell then, lying between them like a dead thing. 

Elemmirë found suddenly that she did not know what to say. Tatya was the strong one, the one who held her when she had night terrors, the one who soothed her when she was afraid and who comforted her when the pain of missing her family and her wife turned the air solid. She could not think of anything clever to tell him that would dry his tears and smooth his twisted mouth. 

“Your wife would not desire such a thing,” she said at last, clumsily. “When she returns she will wish you there to greet her. It is only a little while longer, you will see.”

“We were going to have a child,” he said. “She had just conceived, and I had never been more full of joy. She is never going to have that child, even if or when she returns. Nothing is going to be the way it should have been, no matter what happens.”

Elemmirë had no reply. She wished deeply that she were not so useless, that she had the right words. Aironiel would have known what to do; she was always so skilled at easing others’ pain. So they sat in silence, the two of them, until Tatya’s breathing eased and evened out, and she knew that he slept. Moving carefully so as not to wake him, Elemmirë rose from the bed and climbed into her own bed. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, for a long while. 

In the morning, when they woke, he said nothing of the night before, and she did not press the matter. 


End file.
